“Sausages,” he reminded her. “You promised me food.”
“What you need is a nap, but I’ll fetch you food. And then if you don’t rest, I’ll hit you over the head and knock you out.”
“Darling,” he said. “I love it when you whisper sweet nothings.”
Chapter Five
Margaret returned tothe flat in the late afternoon. Vicky and Tabby were still missing. She thought about knocking on the door and offering whoever answered a share of the meat and veg pies she had bought, but she decided to look for Vicky later. She made her way up the stairs, not as bothered by the dark as she had been at first, and tapped out a quick code on Holyoake’s door before entering. He’d been asleep when she’d left, but if he was awake now, she didn’t want to enter and face the mouth of his pistol.
She entered the flat and found it still dark, the fire in the hearth burning low, which was perfect for this time of year. She closed the door quietly behind her. She’d broken the ineffective lock when she’d kicked it in, but now she dragged a chair in front of it. At least they would have a warning if anyone tried to enter.
The lump in the bed hadn’t moved, and she placed the pies near the hearth to keep them warm. Then she removed her outerwear, washed her hands, and went to check on Holyoake. He was sleeping peacefully. She touched his forehead and found it cool. She couldn’t check his wound without waking him, and she thought he needed his sleep.
She needed sleep as well. They could both sleep for a few hours until night fell, and they could go back to Vanderville’s home. Margaret glanced at the table, where she’d rested her head and tried to sleep the night before. Then she looked at the bed. It was large enough for two, and though Holyoake lay on his back, he wasn’t sprawled over the mattress. She could climb in and lie on her side. That possibility seemed infinitely preferable to the hard wooden table. She’d sleep an hour or two then slip back out and Holyoake would never be the wiser.
Margaret went back to the washstand and removed her dress and other garments, so she wore only her shift. She unbound her hair and quickly washed. Then she padded to the bed, pulled back the threadbare blanket, and climbed in beside Holyoake. She kept to the very edge of the bed and tried to keep from touching him. Strange to be sleeping with a man again. Strange to be sleeping with her husband. Being beside him felt both new and familiar. She listened to his deep, regular breathing. The sound was comforting to her, and she closed her eyes, blocking out the sounds of London and the other residents of the building, and focusing on Holyoake’s quiet breaths going in and coming out.
Her own eyes fluttered closed, and she slept lightly, fighting the part of her brain that wanted to sink into deep, dreamless sleep. At one point, she rolled over, the thin mattress making her hip ache, so she was forced to readjust. She wasn’t certain if it was then or at some other point, when she’d drifted deeper into sleep, that Holyoake put his arm about her. She only knew that she was sleeping curled against his chest, and even though she thought she should move, she didn’t want to.
He smelled of unfamiliar soap and his own very familiar scent of man. His chest was bare, and she thought if she were more awake, she might examine his wound. Instead, she savored the warmth of his naked chest and tried not to think too hard about what he might—or might not—be wearing below the waist.
She knew when he came awake to find her in his arms. His body went rigid and then relaxed slowly as he must have realized who she was. Margaret wanted to wake, tried valiantly to pull herself up from the depths, but her limbs felt so incredibly heavy. She didn’t know if Holyoake went back to sleep, she only knew that when she finally did wake, at the stroke of a distant church bell, Holyoake was still holding her. “It’s quarter to twelve,” he murmured into her hair. “I planned to wake you at midnight.”
“Thank you,” she said, “but I told myself to wake before midnight so I could wake you. How do you feel?”
He stretched, shifting away from her. Her shift had risen enough that she could feel his bare legs. “Better,” he said. “My wound still hurts like hell, but it’s a lesser layer of hell. My head stopped aching. I could eat something.”
She laughed. “I bought pies while I was out.”
“Good girl.” He patted her bottom, and it seemed such a natural thing to do, she didn’t jump away. But then it seemed neither of them wanted to move, wanted to disturb the peace between them. She thought he would ask her about what she had found out at the police headquarters, but he didn’t speak.
And he didn’t go for the pies.
Margaret lifted her head from his shoulder and looked up at him. “Do you want to get up?” she asked.
“No. Do you?”
